


His Good Boy

by allonsys_girl



Series: No Rules [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Dom John Watson, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Post S3, Praise Kink, Service Kink, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months into their romantic relationship, John discovers Sherlock has a praise kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Good Boy

John had always known Sherlock basked in his compliments. From the very first amazing, Sherlock purred like a well-scratched cat whenever John praised him. John made sure to do it often, himself pleased at Sherlock’s reaction. They would share a private smile, maybe a quick wink, and John would spend the rest of the day remembering how Sherlock’s face lit up at his words.

He had always pondered the amount of pleasure it brought them both. It seemed...excessive. But, so many habits between them would have been odd to anyone else's eyes, and since no one else really seemed to notice it, John let it be. He and Sherlock certainly didn’t discuss it. They didn’t do that, discuss their quirks, their themness, emotions and all that. It was just was. It became part of who they were. John praised, Sherlock preened, they grinned at each other, and the day went on.

That nature of this habit changed though, as habits are wont to do, when the nature of their relationship changed. The day a freshly divorced John came back to Baker Street, bags in hand, and said matter-of-factly to Sherlock, _We won’t be needing the second bedroom_ , every aspect of them took on a different hue.

They still bickered and bantered and jumped up at three am at a call from Lestrade. It’s just now they were much more likely to be bantering as they jostled for a place at the sink in the morning, bare thighs brushing against one another as John reached for the wrong toothbrush in a pre-coffee haze. They were more likely to end an argument with a soft press of lips, a hand brushed over a cheek, and an _I love you, you idiot_. When the phone rang at three am, they were most often a tangle of naked limbs and sticky bellies, fumbling for their phones in the piles of hastily shed clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Praise had taken on a more significant meaning too, though John was slow to understand precisely how. Soon after he moved back home, he started noticing that when he burst out with a _fantastic_ at a crime scene, Sherlock’s cheeks would flush and sometimes his deduction would falter for just a second. At first, John wrote it off. Bad day, difficult evidence. It happened again, though, and again. Sherlock blushing and stammering whenever John complimented him. He wouldn’t admit to it after, sulking away from John if he asked and muttering under his breath about bloggers sticking to their own business and leaving the detecting to the detectives.

John started theorising. It wasn’t embarrassment. Sherlock didn’t _get_ embarrassed, and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t have by John praising his intelligence and acumen. No. This looked a lot more like...well. Something else. He was going to have to test this hypothesis, and preferably not in public, since he hoped something decidedly _not_ for public consumption would soon follow.

He waited weeks for the right moment, careful to not shower Sherlock with the normal _amazings_ and _fantastics_ and _you’re so clever’s_ that he normally would have. He backed off a bit, just nodded and smiled at crime scenes, not discouraging Sherlock, just not as effusive as usual. Left him a bit _wanting_ in the praise area.

The right moment happened to come on a Sunday afternoon when John was quietly reading the paper and Sherlock was bustling around, all frayed ends and nervous energy. He’d been restless all morning, stomping about and snapping at John, and by the time the rainy morning had drifted into a foggy afternoon, John’s nearly legendary patience was wearing thin. Sherlock was muttering about their latest case, which was frustrating him, about his hidden stashes of cigarettes, about being out of sugar for his tea, flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room like a moth banging itself against a window.

John shook his paper, cleared his throat.

Sherlock snapped his head round at John, eyes flashing. “What?”

“Bored, love?”

Sherlock sneered. “How could you tell?”

John calmly cleared his throat again, and folded the paper neatly beside him on the sofa. This was the moment he would see if he was right. He threaded his fingers together over his stomach and gave Sherlock a long, unwavering stare. “The fireplace grate is absolutely choking with ash. Why don’t you clean it out? Something to do, that needs doing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted. “If you think chores are going to take the place of a good complicated murder, or a solved one, for that matter, you clearly don’t know me as well as I thought you did. Clean the fireplace out yourself.”

Oh, he was in _quite_ the strop. He hadn’t been this keyed up for a long while. This was the absolute perfect moment, John couldn’t have planned it better.

Sherlock started toward the kitchen again. John said softly, “Be my good boy and clean the fireplace, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped dead. A shiver ran through him that was visible to John sitting all the way across the sitting room. His blue dressing gown, made of silk as light as feathers, rippled like water as his shoulders contracted. John watched as his Adam’s apple moved hard in his throat.

So. That _is_ how it is. _Gotcha_.

Satisfaction at being right spread over John like a warm blanket. He’d suspected for weeks now that this would get Sherlock quivering and pliant, but here was confirmation. A tingle crawled up the back of his neck, and he breathed out through his nose, tried to ignore for the moment how much this idea turned him on, too.

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut and he seemed to be fighting himself. He inhaled sharply. “No. I don’t want to.”

He sounded like a petulant teenager. John licked his lips, heat spreading through his belly. _Ignore it, ignore it._ He wanted to take his time, unwind this slowly, savour it. It wasn’t that their sex life was boring, far from it. John had discovered, much to his surprise, that Sherlock was a profoundly sensual person. He loved John’s hands on him, in his hair, trailing down his spine, brushing across his brow in the morning as John kissed him goodbye. He responded so openly and affectionately to being touched that John could hardly believe sometimes that this was the same person who used to say his body was only transport. Just their pinkies hooked together on the sofa while they watched telly would soon turn into Sherlock draped across John’s lap, rubbing his cheek into his shirt. He had a habit of ambushing John during showers, of cornering him against the kitchen counter while he had a hot tea kettle in one hand. He was insistently and constantly in John’s personal space, and John relished it.

In bed, he was still a bit clumsy and enthusiastic, often achingly sweet. Their first night together, John had been so careful to go slow, not wanting to unnerve him or do anything that would make Sherlock uncomfortable. Sherlock trembled at every caress, shivered and gasped at every kiss, and returned them with bright eyes and a willing mouth. The image of Sherlock, that first time, looking up at John almost shyly through those thick black lashes as he swallowed him down, was both mind bendingly erotic and crushingly heartwarming. They had loved each other for so long without this, without being able to express it, they both felt they were making up for lost time. Rare was the night they _didn’t_ end up sweaty and spent, hands twisted together as they fell asleep naked, legs hanging half off the bed.

Their lovemaking was romantic and satisfying and affectionate, and really, solidly good. But also rather...vanilla. Sherlock was still fairly new at the physical part of a relationship, and John didn’t want to push too hard. John had been waiting until their sex life was somewhat established for an opening to introduce something new, something different, and here this had been all the time. Just waiting for him to pounce on it.

“You don’t want to? Oh. Well, I wasn’t aware that you were in charge around here.” John was taking a leap. They’d never had a conversation about their sexual relationship dynamics, and Sherlock was certainly in control while they were working. At home, though, it was John who directed their lives, who kept Sherlock under control when he needed to be kept, and who managed all the day to day minutiae. Sherlock didn’t make decisions in their personal lives, that was all John. John had been careful so far to not be too dominant with sex; he wasn’t certain of Sherlock’s limits, and this was still fairly new ground for them, only six months in.

“In charge?” Sherlock balked and spun around. “ _No one_ is in charge of me, John. Certainly not you ---”

John cut him off. “I beg to differ. I absolutely am in charge of you, and you want and need me to be. You wouldn’t even remember to eat half the time without me. Now, be my good boy and do what I asked you to do, before I have to show you the consequences of not behaving. You do _want_ to be a good boy, don’t you?”

“John, what are you ---” Sherlock breathed shakily, colour rising on his cheeks.

John smiled slowly, the crooked smirk that he knew sent shivers racing down Sherlock’s spine. This was beautiful. Sherlock was staring at him, lips parted, stock still, his restlessness evaporated. Every molecule of his body and mind were focused entirely on John.

“You’re acting like a sulky brat, and I’m taking you in hand, is what I’m doing. I’m giving you what you need and what you want. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your reaction when I give you compliments. Just so happens, it’s also what I want, which is a nice turn up.” John crossed his legs, left ankle to right knee, and leaned back in the sofa. He had no intention of moving, of forcing or cajoling. He wouldn’t have to. “You’re half hard right now, just from me saying you’re my good boy. Aren’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut, his face completely red, and swallowed. He breathed out, “Yes.”

“That’s my love. I know. Now do what I ask, and you'll get exactly what you need."

Sherlock didn’t move. He was a statue, breathing loudly through trembling lips, his eyelids fluttering. He was otherwise completely still. His cock was more than half hard, tenting the front of his pyjamas prominently. John bit his lip, knowing exactly how that perfect cock felt sliding slickly into his body, Sherlock’s heaving stomach pressed against his back, their hands entwined against the pillows. A rush of blood made his face flush, and he exhaled with control, digging his fingernails into his thighs. This wasn’t about that yet, _dammit, John_.

This was about helping Sherlock focus, to learn some control. The sex was part of it, of course, but John would have to wait for his turn. This was about Sherlock.

Who was still waiting for John to tell him what to do. John deliberately changed his tone of voice, deeper, more commanding, infused with that particular flavour of military authority. “Mind me, Sherlock. There will be repercussions if you keep stomping around the flat acting like a child.”

Sherlock licked his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes still shut. He couldn’t keep the eagerness out his voice. "What kind of repercussions?”

"Do you really want to find out?" John asked evenly, "Or would you rather I was happy with you?"

"Happy." Sherlock whispered.

"Good. Me too." John picked his paper back up and opened it. "Clean the fire grate, Sherlock."

"Yes, John." Sherlock immediately went into the kitchen to retrieve the dustpan and the small boar hair broom. He knelt by the hearth and began to rather frenetically sweep, clearly trying to hurry up and get to what came after. Cinder was getting everywhere.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was dead calm, but the warning in it was clear. “You’re making a mess.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock glanced back at John with his lip bitten under his top teeth, eyes big and round. John could hardly believe how well this was going, how much Sherlock must have been craving John truly taking the dominant role, consciously and purposefully. How much Sherlock needed John to tell him how good he was, how much he loved him, not just at a crime scene, not just for what he did, but for who he was. John didn’t praise him enough at home, he realised now. Sherlock had always been so needful of John’s approval.

It occurred to John that he hadn’t been as much of a caretaker with him since he’d come home after the divorce. Maybe the sex and the romance filled that space, the need to take care of Sherlock in other ways. He used to make him eat and bathe and sleep because he couldn’t gather him against his bare chest and whisper _I love you, you ridiculous creature_ into his hair as they fell asleep. Now that he could, he'd slacked off on the other things. But maybe Sherlock still needed those other things from John, and he’d been letting him down. Shit.

“No need to be sorry, love. Just watch what you’re doing.” John put his paper aside in favour of watching Sherlock finish sweeping out the ash. The lines of his back and shoulders curved down in graceful arcs, his long bony feet tucked under his bum and crossed over each other, the musculature of his torso like that of a dancer, lean and smooth.   

John couldn’t remember what it felt like to want a woman. To want softness and breasts and curves under his hands. He couldn’t remember what it was to want anyone but Sherlock. There was no one else he thought about, no fantasy could compare to Sherlock. Sherlock’s hard lines, the bumps of his rib cage, stomach hollowed, as he stretched and arched, hands white knuckling the headboard -- he couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful. Sherlock's face, normally so angular and quivering with barely contained nervous energy, transformed completely during and after sex. He was softer, even the lines of those magnificent cheekbones gentled into submission by endorphins and happiness and John’s mouth on his.

Sherlock was being assiduously careful now, gentle small brushes of the broom, not overfilling the dustpan. He got up, tipped the cinder into the kitchen bin, came back and sank slowly onto his knees again, his dressing gown billowing around him. John had never once, not in six years, seen Sherlock so docile. The change a few simple words had wrought on him was astounding.

“You’re doing a good job, Sherlock.” John said warmly. It was time to give him some kind of small reward. This wasn’t about punishment, though John wouldn’t hesitate to be forceful if the need arose in the future. That was something to be discussed and negotiated. Today was about making Sherlock focus, and filling him up with the approval he’d so obviously been missing. John got up off the couch, and slowly crossed the room, watching Sherlock’s back tense as he came closer. God, the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to feel nervous around him. No, this was about care, about making Sherlock feel safe and protected. The top of Sherlock’s head came right to John’s hip. He rested his hand in those luscious black curls and ruffled. “That’s my boy.”

“Oooh.” Sherlock squirmed, hips wriggling over his heels, a shuddering moan tearing from his throat, and John knew he had him. He was completely subbed out, his brain attuned only to earning John’s praise.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you? You already want to come so badly.” John knelt behind him, slid a hand around to rest firm against Sherlock’s stomach, careful not to touch his cock. Sherlock nodded, just barely, breathing shallowly. John’s front to Sherlock’s back, his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Patience, love. Finish cleaning the grate."

“Ohh--okay.” Sherlock’s voice quavered. He bent forward to begin sweeping and his arse pressed into John’s groin. John was already hard, he couldn’t help the hitching of his pelvis as their bodies made contact. Sherlock sucked in a breath, his rib cage expanding under John's hand, and he ground his hips back. “Oh, John, please.”

"Mmm-mmm. Not yet." John slipped his hand off Sherlock's stomach, and shuffled backwards enough that their bodies weren't pressed close, but they could still feel each other's heat. "You're being so good for me, Sherlock. So obedient. My good boy. Just keep going, look, you’re almost done there.”

Sherlock swept the last remaining pieces of charred wood and scraps of tinder into the dustpan. He raised his eyes to look into John’s, and the emotion there was so needful, so tractable, John's heart tightened painfully. Sherlock would do absolutely anything John asked of him right now. Anything. He had to touch him. He thumbed a smudge of ash from Sherlock’s chin and smiled.

“I would never do anything to make you uneasy, Sherlock. You know that. I love you more than anything or anyone. You’re my whole world.” John spit on his thumb and rubbed at the spot on Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock was perfectly still, watching John’s face and blinking slowly. “You’re not uncomfortable with this, right? With what we’re doing right now?”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes cast down.

“Love, I need to hear you _say it_ before we go any farther. Because I won’t have you being unnerved later, or feeling ashamed.” He should have asked this earlier, before Sherlock was so compliant. Damn. Miscalculated a bit there. He hadn't expected Sherlock to respond quite so readily.

"No, John. I -- I like it. Very much." Sherlock’s voice was quiet and intense. His translucent eyes met John’s indigo ones and tilted his head, curls tumbling across his forehead. He seemed to be searching for words. “This is -- it makes me --”

John kissed the smudged place on Sherlock’s chin. He’d never felt so painfully fond of Sherlock before, not in six years. It hurt, it physically hurt, how sweet and open Sherlock was in this space. He whispered tenderly, “Come on, Mr Punchline, tell me.”  

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, having a difficult time emerging from his sub state enough to answer as he normally would. "I can’t, John, I can’t right now. I can’t _think_. Just, please, believe me. I like it. I feel -- relieved.”

John brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his brow with a gentle hand. “Because I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he stared into John’s unabashed in his adoration. “Because you’ve got me. Because you’re my John, and you’ve always got me.”

“Alright, sweet boy. We’ll talk more about it later, okay? Now. Go put that ash in the bin and wash your hands. You’re all sooty.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s face relaxed, and he pushed up off the floor, long toes stretching as he stood.

John watched him walk into the kitchen, thinking of that agile sinewy body moving underneath him, and suppressed a shiver. He breathed out through his mouth and in through his nose, and adjusted himself in his jeans, willing his body to slow down. He was in control, and he had a responsibility to Sherlock. John had purposefully put him in this space, and he had to take care of him. It wouldn’t do to lose himself in it.

Not yet, anyway.

He got up from the floor and settled in his chair, listening to Sherlock washing his hands. The water shut off and Sherlock padded quietly back into the sitting room. John patted his lap and held an arm out to Sherlock. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock curled into his lap, and laid his head against John’s shoulder. He sighed, moist breath across John’s throat, and burrowed close, limbs loosening, his entire body, every part of him, sinking into each curve and hollow of John's body. Fitted together perfectly. John kissed his forehead, stroked his back, thinking of the hell they had been through together to get to this place. Careful to not dislodge Sherlock, he put his right hand over the scar, the bumps of scar tissue easily felt under Sherlock’s thin tee shirt. God, what they had been through.

What Sherlock had gone through, all for John. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, John would inexplicably awaken, shaken by some dream he barely remembered and turn to see Sherlock beside him, slack jawed and loose limbed, gangly arms thrown over his head, and that scar would draw his eye to it. Shiny and knotted, shimmery white with red striations, a ring of smooth skin in the center, it broke his heart every time he saw it. _He_ had brought Mary into their lives, and her presence had torn them away from each other all over again. It was _his_ fault Sherlock had nearly died, _his fault_. He would never believe otherwise.

John ran his fingertips gently over the knotted skin. "I love you. So much."

"I love you, too, John." Sherlock curled a hand up to play with the collar of John's shirt, his knuckles running over the side of John's neck.

"Mmm. That feels good." John curved his neck toward Sherlock's fingers, seeking more. "Do you feel better, love? Calmed down now?"

"Yes, John."

“Good. You’ve been in a strop most of the day, busy sulking and fuming when we could have been doing this instead. Have you learned a lesson?”

Sherlock hummed and nuzzled, nodded. His bent knees slid sideways and rested against John’s chest, feet tucked between John’s thigh and the armrest. John slipped his hand in between Sherlock’s thighs, rubbing his thumb in small circles. The muscle tensed under his hand, and he felt Sherlock’s breathing pick up. He was so responsive. So hungry for love and affection. He could never get enough, having been starved for John’s touch for so long.  

“Tell me, Sherlock. What did you learn?”

“That if I do what you tell me, I get what I want.” Sherlock’s words were barely more than air. The tip of his cock jumped, nudged at John’s fingertips in between his thighs, and John’s responded in kind, straining against his jeans, the head pushing uncomfortably at the zipper.

“Well, not exactly that. Yes, that, too, but more that I'm here to take care of you. That's my job. It's also my job to take you in hand when you need it, but we'll talk more about that later. Tonight isn’t about that.  I'm sorry I haven't been as vocal about how brilliant and wonderful I think you are lately. You've been missing it, haven't you?"

Sherlock nodded, his shoulders curling inward, and John suspected he might be tearing up. He was emotional since his return, and certainly more so since John had come home. John wrapped his left arm around him tightly and kissed the bony bump of his knee, tucked under John’s chin. “Oh, love. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know this is still all so new, for both of us. We’re going to have some missteps along the way. I’m so sorry, my beautiful boy. I didn’t understand. It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock shivered, turned his face into John’s neck, the very tip of his tongue dragging over the roughness of John’s afternoon stubble. “I’m your beautiful boy?”

God, his voice was breaking. John’s _heart_ was breaking. He had sorely underestimated Sherlock’s need for his approval, for his affirmation. “Yes, of course, my god, Sherlock. You’re everything. Everything to me. My beautiful boy, my wonderful, perfect Sherlock.”

Sherlock kissed his neck more deeply, running his tongue up John’s jawline, swirling it over his earlobe. His voice was husky in John’s ear, “Please, John.”

“Please, what, my love? Please, this?” Sherlock’s thigh trembled as John pushed his hand up further, towards the staggering heat between Sherlock’s legs. He rubbed the tip of his index finger along the underside of Sherlock’s erection, nail along the frenulum, and Sherlock moaned against John’s neck. “That’s it, beautiful. Make those lovely noises for me. What a good boy.”

The moan turned into a whining grunt, Sherlock pushing up towards John’s hand, and opening his lips against John’s neck. His mouth was warm honey, melting sweetly against John’s throat. His face was burning, his arousal spiraling through him, flames and heat and blotched skin.

“You’re such a good boy, Sherlock.” John’s voice trembled as Sherlock started sucking out a bruise under his jaw, his fringe tickling John’s ear, legs falling open as he pressed up into John’s exploring fingers. “I’m going to take care of you. Forever. You deserve that, and so much more. Everything I can give you, I will.”

John’s words dissolved into _Oh, god_ and _That feels so good_ , his eyes rolling back as Sherlock pulled his skin into his hot mouth, sucking it around his teeth and soothing with little laps of his tongue, a bruise that would be deep and dark purple tomorrow, unmistakable for anything but a love bite. Sherlock would want him to show it off, he’d make them go out, put John in a shirt with no collar, run his fingers over it while they were in Lestrade’s office, or on the tube. Call attention to it. John would let him.

Sherlock ground his hips in a little circle, shifting John’s cock against his arse, and John couldn’t stop the shudder, his head pounding back against the chair. He felt his way over the edge of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, and slipped his hand inside, the velvety skin of Sherlock’s cock hot and wet. John pulled it up until the head was poking out of the waistband, pressed flush against Sherlock’s pale belly. The sight of which made John quake with desire, the glans deep pink, already leaking for him. He drew his thumb across the slit, and Sherlock made to push at his pyjama bottoms.

“No, leave it. You’re so beautiful like that.” John could barely swallow. He wanted everything, all at once. He was shaking from the effort of staying composed. He wanted Sherlock on his knees, he wanted Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, he wanted to bend him over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck him until they both slid boneless to the floor. “God, _so_ beautiful like that.”

John pushed him back, wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s biceps, eased him off his lap until he was on the floor, his back up against his own chair. John spread Sherlock’s knees, and lay on his stomach between them, propped on his elbows. “God, you’re just. Stunning. Every part of you. Look at this. How can I keep my mouth off you, you amazing creature?”

Sherlock’s head sank back into the leather, his hips beginning to roll just from John’s words. His knees fell completely open, and the elastic of his pyjamas pulled taut, pressing his cock harder into his belly. He whimpered, and hitched his pelvis imploringly towards John.

“You -- are -- _such_ a good boy -- for me.” John murmured, licking gently at the slit. He kissed the tip of Sherlock’s cock, so warm and wet, and suckled just a few centimeters into his mouth. John’s own belly lurched with desire, his arse muscles clenching. His arms encircled Sherlock’s hips and he dug his fingers into the top of his arse, pulling him closer.

The deep groan pulled from Sherlock’s lips made John suck harder, his nose bumping against Sherlock’s belly where his shirt was rucked up. “So beautiful -- so clever -- and so fucking _mine_.”

Sherlock gasped out y _ours, John, yours_ and pushed up into John’s mouth, trying to get deeper. John wouldn’t let him; the sight of the flushed head trapped taut above the elastic of Sherlock's pyjamas was making John crazy with want. He licked slowly and methodically, until Sherlock’s thighs were trembling uncontrollably and his stomach muscles were pulled tight and hard. Sherlock’s hands fell into John’s hair, just lightly, though John could tell he was holding back.

John took his mouth off of his cock long enough to murmur, “You’re allowed to pull, love," and then enveloped the head again with his mouth, pressing his tongue hard into the frenulum and hollowing his cheeks. His own cock was throbbing almost painfully in his jeans, though he was trying to ignore it.

“Oh, god, John, oh my god, _please_.” Sherlock yanked on John’s hair, pulling him down and tried to push up, but John slipped his hands quickly to his hips and held him down.

John immediately stopped and raised his head. “Sherlock. You can pull my hair, but none of that pushing up. You’re going to get what you need, I promise. Just be patient. You have got to learn some patience.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I want you so badly,” Sherlock tossed his head from side to side, hips wriggling, and reached down into his pyjamas, wrapping his fingers around his cock. His head fell back in relief as he stroked upward, “Oh god, oh god.”

John scrabbled to his knees and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, stilling his hand. “No. You absolutely are not going to sit there and wank off in front of me because you can’t be patient. That is _not_ being my good boy.”

“I’m sorry, John. I just...it’s not enough.” Sherlock whined, pulling at John’s hips. “I want so much, all the time.”

“I know you do, baby. You’re so receptive to just...everything. And you want it all _right now_. It’s the same with the work. You’re impatient. Sometimes, waiting makes it better.” John knelt in between Sherlock’s legs, leaned forward and braced his hands against the cracked leather cushion. He locked eyes with Sherlock, not allowing him to look away. "Go in our room, take everything off, and lay down on the bed. Don’t you _dare_ touch yourself, understand? You’re going to wait for me.”

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes were huge and black, his bottom lip very calculatingly pouted.

“You’re going to show me what a good boy you can be. You’re going to wait for me, and not touch yourself, because if you do, I am not going to fuck you." John knew he wouldn't follow through with that, and Sherlock probably did, too, but he obediently got up off the floor and started crossing the sitting room, casting heated looks back at John as he went.

"Go ahead." John encouraged. "You just mind me, and I'll be in soon."

As soon as he heard the door creak, John rocked up into his chair and sucked in a deep calming breath. This was much more intense than he's been anticipating. He thought a few well placed _good boy_ ’s would get Sherlock squirming in his lap, and they'd laugh and fuck and it would be a new tool in the arsenal.

Instead, Sherlock _needed_ this. He needed it like water in the desert, desperately thirsty for John's approval and praise. It was incredibly arousing, but it was deeply emotional, too. This wasn't a game in that sense. John couldn't take lightly the responsibility of Sherlock's trust in him.

He resolved to make Sherlock wait 10 minutes. No more and no less. John was fighting impatience himself, rock hard still inside his jeans, and nearly bursting out of his skin with desire. _Breathe, John, breathe_.

The minutes ticked by torturously, John’s eyes fixed on the mantel clock. He couldn’t stop wondering what he had begun here and whether this would irrevocably change their relationship. He also couldn’t stop thinking about fucking Sherlock into the mattress, the look in those big round eyes as he knelt by the fireplace, the feeling of that beautiful mouth against his throat, and by the time ten minutes had passed, he was quivering from head to toe trying to control himself enough not to have it be over in seconds. He forced himself to walk slowly and calmly into the bedroom.

Sherlock was lying on the bed on his back, hands folded behind his head, his long pale body nearly glowing against the maroon bedspread. He was staring up at the ceiling, cock still hard, flushed and gorgeous laying against his flat stomach. John lost his ability to breathe for a moment, an occurrence that happened with regularity whenever he realised this was actually happening. That Sherlock was _his_ , after so many years wasted apart.

“Hello, my beautiful boy. Waiting over.” John shut the door behind him, and pulled his shirt over his head, pushed his jeans down with one hand, toed out of his socks, desperate to be out of his clothes, to be pressed flesh to flesh. “Look how gorgeous you are.”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows and watched John undressing, his eyes burning. “Look how gorgeous _you_ are, John.”

“Shush. Don’t lie to me.” But he was grinning as he put a knee on the bed and crawled up Sherlock’s body, kissing his stomach, across his chest, setting his teeth into the pale curve of his bare shoulder. Sherlock hummed and ran his hand down John’s back, clasped his fingers around his hipbone.

“I did what you said. I didn’t touch myself at all. What else, John? What else do you want me to do?” Sherlock’s voice stuttered as John reached down and ran his hand lightly over Sherlock’s cock, and down to cup his testicles for a moment, and then back up and over to rub over his belly.

“I know, I know. You minded me. That's my boy, that’s my good boy...you don't have to do anything else right now, _except let me fuck you_." John murmured into Sherlock’s neck, sliding his knees on either side of Sherlock’s thighs and canting forward. As soon as their cocks slid together, they both erupted into sighs and moans, Sherlock’s head falling backward and exposing that long freckled neck even further, John’s falling forward, his forehead pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder for a minute while he stopped and tried to breathe, because god, sometimes he really couldn’t when they were like this. John tilted his face up, licked a swath from collarbone to chin, tipped Sherlock’s face down, and kissed him deeply.

Kissing Sherlock was like standing under a waterfall. John felt surrounded by him, the world drowned out by the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, every infinitesimal crack and scar under his tongue, the slide of Sherlock’s tongue against his own, the unevenness of his taste buds, the tension in the muscle when Sherlock swirled his tongue around the tip of John’s, the heat of his lips pulling John’s between them, scrape of his stubble against John’s chin as they moved in rhythm against each other’s mouths. Sherlock’s hands in his hair. Sherlock’s fingers tracing over the tendons in his neck. The smell of Sherlock’s hair.

“I love kissing you.” John mumbled, his hands drifting up to sift through Sherlock’s curls and pull. Sherlock’s face went slack, his mouth falling open, eyes rolling back. “You love when I pull your hair, don’t you?”

Sherlock whimpered and tried to nod, but John had him fast, fingers tangled in his long curls.

“Answer me, baby. Say you love it.”

“I love it, oh god, I do, I do…”  

“That’s my boy. Let me hear you, come on. The fucking noises you make…”

Sherlock groaned as John tugged on his hair gently, hips rocking up to meet John’s, pulling lines across his shoulder blades with tensed fingers. His forehead was breaking out in tiny little beads of sweat, and John wanted to lick each one, taste him, take him body and soul into his own body until he had no idea where Sherlock ended and John began. He pulled Sherlock’s head back further, tightening his fingers in his hair, and licked up the side of his face, tasting salt. He shivered, thrust his hips against Sherlock, too much friction between their skin.

“Lube, we need lube, god, I want to fuck you so badly I can’t think straight --” John reached blindly into the side drawer, unwilling to climb off of Sherlock long enough to actually look, fumbling around until his fingers closed on the bottle.

Sherlock's long fingers closed around John's hand. "Let me. Please."

"Let you what?"

Sherlock looked up at John, his face deadly serious. "I want to. I want to...do it for you."

"Put the lube on my fingers?" John was suddenly a little confused, thrown off where exactly he thought they were. This wasn't just about praise. There was something more, something John wasn't yet understanding.

"Please?"

There was something so vulnerable, so poignant, in this simple request, this quiet please, John knew it was deeply important for him to acquiesce.

"Of course, love, whatever you want. Whatever you want." John whispered, breathless, handing Sherlock the bottle and holding his hand out flat. Sherlock flicked the cap open with his thumbnail, upturned it onto John’s waiting hand, catching his bottom lip with his teeth as he watched the clear liquid coating John’s fingers. His breath immediately quickened, cock twitching against John’s belly.

John grinned, nudged at Sherlock’s legs with his elbow. Sherlock’s knees fell open, his head pounding back into the pillows, and he dropped the bottle on the bed. John drew two fingers up the underside of Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock moaned and arched, John wrapped his whole hand around Sherlock and kissed his shoulder. He slipped his palm over Sherlock’s testicles, pressing his middle finger hard against his perineum and rubbing. Sherlock cried out, high pitched and desperate, his back curving up into a C, legs trembling.

John dragged his fingers over Sherlock’s throat, licking at his earlobe, and slid his finger back and inside until Sherlock was pushing down and whimpering _please, please, please_. Inside that beautiful body, allowed, allowed to take Sherlock like this. Sometimes John still couldn't believe he was permitted to see Sherlock this way, given the right to make him writhe and beg and come, to see his vulnerabilities.

"You feel so good, so good for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock sobbed, neck arching, and dug his fingers into John's bicep. Now two fingers, pushing, stroking Sherlock from the inside, stretching his fingers knuckles pressed flush against Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock was a thrashing, whimpering mess under him, practically crying with pleasure. He’d been wound up for so long, waiting, hard since John murmured the first _good boy_. The blush that had crept up his entire body was deepening, dark red and gorgeous, his lips swollen. John pushed a third finger in, Sherlock moaning so loudly John was sure the neighbors could hear him, and he grabbed the headboard hard enough to shift it forward.

“You want to come?” John bent his head and licked at Sherlock’s nipple, rolled it into his mouth and sucked. Sherlock twisted toward him and clutched at the back of his neck, scraping at him with his fingernails.

“I want -- I want -- _more_ \--” Sherlock panted out, pushing down onto John’s hand until he was sure his knuckles were bruising him.

“Oh, god, baby, me too. I want everything. I can’t get enough of you, ever.” This was the most electrifyingly good sex they’d had, the air between them rife with heat and need, and John felt like he was on the edge of completely losing control, which was both a terrifying and a dizzyingly arousing place to be.

“Nor I, John. I want --” Sherlock clenched around John’s pumping fingers and made a low noise in his throat, one that John knew well by now.

John began kissing down Sherlock’s chest, his own heart thumping wildly. “Tell me. Talk to me, Sherlock, there we go." He reached Sherlock’s navel and licked, making Sherlock jump, and scraped his teeth against the translucent skin of Sherlock’s hipbone, making Sherlock squirm and toss his head to the side, biting into his bicep. “No, don’t you dare muffle it. I want to hear every noise. Mind me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock obediently took his mouth off his arm, and half moaned, half whined, as his head rocked from side to side and his shoulders tightened. “I want --”

“What do you want, beautiful boy, tell me.” John mouthed wetly at Sherlock’s hip, waiting for him to say it.

“I want -- I want your mouth on me, please, please…”

“I do too.” John licked the tip of Sherlock’s cock, pressed his tongue into the slit as he swept across, and Sherlock’s entire body rippled as he moaned and sighed and bit into his lip so hard the skin popped and then there was blood on his mouth. He craned his head up, looking down the plane of his chest,  his dark eyes holding John in them, hypnotised.

John's eyes didn't leave Sherlock's as he lowered his head and took Sherlock into his mouth, simultaneously pressing his fingers in as deep as he could, and stroking. Sherlock's entire body had drawn up tight as a bowstring, quivering and silent. John lapped gently at his cock, not pulling, not sucking, not wanting to push him over the edge yet.

He pulled off when Sherlock thickened and jerked in his mouth, put his lips almost chastely to the tip, and looked at Sherlock, shaking apart under him, his entire body blotchy purple and white, and wet with perspiration, his thighs twitching and jumping. _I did that. I did that to him_.

John laid back down with his lips to Sherlock's shoulder, kissed up his neck, and slipped his fingers gently out of him. Sherlock turned and met his lips, licking into his mouth, and John grabbed at the back of his head. Closer, closer - he always needed Sherlock closer, it was never enough.

"You -- taste like -- me." Sherlock gasped, their lips still touching, a smile creeping across his face. He kissed at John's jaw, licked his chin.

"I know." John closed his hand around Sherlock's cock lightly, and buried his face in Sherlock's sweat slick neck. "Go ahead now, baby. Come for me."

He pulled once, light and loose the way Sherlock liked it, and Sherlock pushed his hips up, fucking into John's fist, his head falling back with a long low moan. John watched, the perfect triangle of his pelvis canting up, belly hollowed, thigh muscles flexing, every hair on his stomach quivering. John stilled his hand, just let Sherlock rock his hips up over and over, one hand fisted in the rumpled sheets, the other clawing at John’s back and neck, leaving scratches that would be welts by tomorrow morning.

John whispered breathlessly, "That's my boy. That's my good boy. Oh god, look at you. You're beautiful. Come for me, baby, come on, come on."

John kept murmuring _that’s my boy, my good boy_ , watching, mesmerised, as Sherlock drew up tighter and tighter. Finally Sherlock let out a choked sob, his hips raised and shaking, his cock pulsed under John’s fingers, and he came thick and hot all over his stomach and chest, little pools of pearly white that John had to put his mouth on, he just had to. Sherlock collapsed with a thump, trembling from head to toe, humming and whimpering, a little aftershock convulsing through him every few seconds.  

“God -- you are -- so fucking amazing --” John licked at the come spattered across Sherlock’s left pectoral, then droplets on his sternum, down the bumps of his ribcage, flattened his tongue and curled at Sherlock’s stomach again and again until he’d taken it all in. “Mine. Every bit of you. _Mine_.”

Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, petting and rubbing languidly. He made an assenting hum as John kissed back up his chest and nuzzled at his throat.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, John, yours. Always have been, you know that.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and husky, his face soft, all the lines smoothed away.

“But in every way now.”

“In every way.” Sherlock ran his fingers along John’s side, smiling crookedly, his eyes still closed.

John growled low in his throat, feeling it reverberating down his neck and under his ribs. He climbed over Sherlock’s thighs and pushed them apart, reached for the bottle of lube that had rolled almost off the bed, and clicked it open. In a voice so deep and raspy, he could hardly believe it was his, he gasped, “Gonna fuck you now.”

Sherlock’s hips wriggled towards him. “Yes, John, yes. Please fuck me, please, please….”

John’s breath caught, just for a second, astounded at this, at them, at how much this all meant, and how it could never ever express completely what they were to each other, no matter how they tried to say it and show it, how does one begin to express to their own heart what its presence means to them? To thank their lungs for letting them breathe? That’s what it was, that’s how it felt, loving Sherlock, being loved by him.

Words don’t exist for this kind of connection, this kind of love. It just _is_.

John bent over Sherlock and kissed him, took his hand and tangled their fingers together, pressed their entwined hands above Sherlock’s head, half in his hair, and with his other hand, took his cock and pushed in. Sherlock’s legs immediately wrapped tight around John’s ribs, heels pressing into his spine. John slid his hand up to cup Sherlock’s face, stroked his finger down his cheek.

"I love you so much I don’t know what to do.” He whispered desperately, pushing, pushing, until their bodies were so flush together they were melding into one. It was true, he didn’t know. He lived in fear of hurting Sherlock, of breaking him, of forgetting how fragile Sherlock could be.

Sherlock’s mouth ticked up and his eyes flashed with mirth suddenly as his pushed at John’s hands and twisted his hips, “I know what to do.”

He rolled his hips until he’d flipped them, a tangle of arms and legs, John slipping out of Sherlock as they rolled, until John flat on his back with Sherlock straddling his hips and his arms pinned above his head. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and looked at John through his eyelashes. “Let me make you come. I don’t want you to have to do anything at all.”

John laughed a little, brimming with emotions he didn’t even know how to name, and strained against Sherlock’s hands holding his wrists. “Okay, but I want to touch you.”

“Okay.” Sherlock said softly, looking at John with unrestrained affection, and let his hands free.

John’s hands came to his hips, thumbs against the smooth curve of Sherlock’s bone. “Come on, gorgeous, come on, that’s it…”

Sherlock’s head fell to the side, his eyes shutting, as he reached behind himself and guided John’s cock back inside. John shuddered at the sensation of Sherlock opening to him, the muscles expanding and then contracting. It was deeper at this angle, Sherlock’s hands flat against John’s chest as he began to roll his hips in circles, and John’s entire body quaked, shivers racing down his spine. His head felt thick and heavy, and Sherlock’s hands on his chest were fire and weight, pure heat pressing into him.

“Is that good, John?” Sherlock breathed, half hard again already, and John moved his hand just slightly to run his thumb down the side of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasped and arched, his muscles clenching around John, thighs squeezing his hips.

“Oh god, yeah, so good, so good,” John could hardly talk, his tongue felt thick in his his mouth, his whole body thrumming with arousal. He curled his fingers more tightly around Sherlock’s hips, the muscles undulating under his fingers as Sherlock canted his hips back and forth. Sherlock’s head fell forward, sweat dripped from his hair onto John’s belly.

“I want to make you come, John. I want --” Sherlock hitched forward hard, digging his fingernails into John’s skin.

“You are, you do. You’re my good boy, god, fuck, you’re so good, fuck, God, I don’t even know what I’m saying --” John’s voice caught on last word, tipping over, his belly hot and tight, head swimming. He thrust up once, and Sherlock ground down at the same time, and he was coming, a tide of endorphins washing over him as his entire body contracted, mind wiped clean of any thought but Sherlock, Sherlock’s hands, and sweaty thighs against him, Sherlock’s keening little sounds in his ear; John’s stomach heaved and tensed, he forgot how to breathe for a moment, and then he was sagging, boneless, into the sheets, and Sherlock was tipping over him, mouthing words into his skin and running his hands up and down his arms, and John couldn’t move.

They stayed that way until Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the cleft of John’s chin - a spot he always lavished ridiculous amounts of attention on - and padded softly into the bathroom. John laid there, half floating, his skin tingling, wondering where on earth Sherlock had got to. The sound of water running reminded him, and he shut his eyes drowsily, every muscle in his body warm and loose.

The water shut off, the bathroom door creaked in it's familiar way, and the bed dipped down as Sherlock climbed back on and knelt beside John. John opened his eyes, reached out a hand to stroke his thigh. He looked so beautiful after sex, and never more so than today; his curls sweaty and tangled, cheeks still retaining the flush of arousal against the pale white of the rest of his skin, his mouth kiss swollen, sore from John's stubble. He looked peaceful, though. Those translucent grey blue eyes were calm, untroubled, as they passed fondly down the length of John's body.

"Hey, beautiful." John said thickly, his voice trapped in the back of his throat.

"Hey." Sherlock smiled serenely, and held up a wet flannel with soap suds on it. John realised he had a bowl of soapy water between his knees. “Clean you up.”

“You don’t have to --” John started, but Sherlock put his fingers to his lips.

“I want to. Alright? I really, very much want to.” Sherlock brushed his knuckles across John’s cheek in the most tender gesture John had ever received from him, and squeezed out the flannel into the bowl. He started at John’s face, gently sweeping in circles across his brow, down the sides of his nose, his sweaty hairline. He followed the line of his neck, dipping into the hollows of his clavicle, over his shoulder. Sherlock dipped the cloth back in the water, wrung it out again, started on John’s stomach.

It was lovelier and more fulfilling than he could have imagined. Not just the physical feeling of the cool cloth over his hot sticky skin, although that was relaxing in it’s own right, but the caretaking. Sherlock’s touch was so gentle, so reverent. John knew he was being cherished, which was a sorely unfamiliar experience for him.

Sherlock wiped down the length of his entire body, ending with the soles of his feet, which made him squirm and giggle, and Sherlock giggled in return, sharing a look with John that had never passed between them before. Some barrier had been broken today, something between them had shifted, and John wasn’t yet sure he understood entirely what. But Sherlock was happy and calm, and that was good enough for the moment. There would be a time and place later for conversations about it.

Sherlock slid off the end of the bed, dropping the cloth into the bowl. “I’ll be right back. Just going to wash this out.”

“Hurry back. I miss you.”

Sherlock shook his head, but the grin on his face could have powered all of Westminster. John smiled and turned on his side, drawing the blankets up over him. It was only four or so in the afternoon, but it was dreary and foggy, and they had no where to be. Lazing naked in bed with Sherlock until dinner was too enticing to even think of doing anything else.

Sherlock reappeared, and John held his arms open. “Come here, you absolutely amazing creature.”

They settled against each other, sighing contentedly, and John kissed Sherlock softly, brushing his fringe away from his brow. “So. That was...really, _really_ incredible.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock hummed, and burrowed closer to John’s chest, his hands resting against his stomach.

“We should talk about this, okay? We don’t have to right now, but -- this was different, and we need to talk about whether this is an all the time thing, or just sometimes, whether it’s just in the bedroom, or --”

“John, I understand, and we will. I promise. But for now, can we just --” Sherlock draped an arm over John’s waist, and tucked his leg over John’s thigh, rubbing his bare foot against John’s calf.

“Yeah, baby, sure.” John kissed him again, and Sherlock’s head nudged into the crook of John’s arm. “I’m just going to --”

“Fall asleep, like you always do after sex. And I’ll lie here and listen to your heart beating, and count the number of times you say my name when you’re dreaming, and when you wake up we’ll go out and have Indian. I’m in the mood for Indian.”

“You count how many times I say your name when I’m dreaming?”

“Of course. It’s very flattering.”

“You’re wonderful.” John mumbled, already drifting off.

Sherlock tucked himself as close as he could get to John, their bellies moving against each other as they breathed, and whispered against his neck, “I’m your good boy.”

John pushed his fingers up into Sherlock's sweaty curls and kissed his forehead. "Yes, you are."


End file.
